


Steal Away

by tolerable



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4280832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolerable/pseuds/tolerable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Partners in crime AU; Tao and Sehun are a new thing. They also steal things and date each other on the side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steal Away

_9 PM St. Petersburg, Russia_

 

It’s all about misdirection, the mastery of manipulating a person’s interest – a witty retelling, a pretty assistant, a shiny coin. Like magic, misdirection is the cornerstone of theft, the prime technique of any grand heists. But unlike magic, stealing only has two parts: misdirection and the sleight of hand. And unlike magic, anything stolen will never be seen again. No standing ovations, no deafening applause, no final bows.

 

Huang Zitao doesn’t consider himself a magician. He’s more of an art connoisseur, but mostly, he’s a chart topper in Interpol’s most wanted criminals, a feat that brings him an odd sense of accomplishment. Being number one comes easily to him, like school, like his cover up restaurant chain business, just that this time, he has a huge bounty on his head coupled with a jail time that will span three and a half reincarnations.

 

The misdirection is executed three hours ago when someone sends an anonymous tip to the Russian police that tonight, at exactly 9 in the evening, the famous 18th century automaton by James Cox will be stolen. Zitao slicks his messy pompadour back with his fingers. His look matches his expensive suit, his tie, and the fake name and history he made up in his equally expensive 2014 Maserati as he bobs his head to an old Usher track. “And the cat is in,” he whispers with a smile on his lips. It could have been easily for the long-legged attendant in a tight strappy dress.

 

But it really is for the nifty, almost invisible communication device taped at the back of his ear – something he bought from the Beijing underground market. She takes his coat, and Zitao lowers his eyes, tracing the swell of her breast. “You got eyes for me, hyung?”

 

Zitao hears the clacking of keys through his earpiece, followed by an emptying, satisfying sip of liquid. Soda, Jongdae has to have at least two cans a day. “Eyes and ears, kitten. You’re in.”

 

The attendant somehow finds him in the middle of the hall. She hands Zitao a champagne flute with a small strip of paper wrapped around the stem. Phone number. Zitao pockets it quickly. “You’re my favorite genius little thing.”

 

“Flattery is cheap.” Jongdae laughs and Zitao hears a bag of chips being opened. “Focus, please.” The loud taps of fingers against the keyboard makes Zitao feel more secure than his extensive knowledge of various martial arts. He could render someone unconscious with his thumb and forefinger, yet knowing Jongdae has his back gives him the extra confidence. Jongdae once told him he has too much.

 

He and Jongdae go a long way back. Zitao will catch a bullet for him and he knows Jongdae will do the same without asking. Zitao knows that when it comes down to it, he’s ready to take the brunt of the punishment. But Zitao doesn’t have that on his road map. They have five years of art heists under their belts, successful, consistent. They operate under one name, evaluated and profiled under one name. They are, quote, highly narcissistic, critically organized, risk takers, with a flair for grandiosity, unquote. The media is not entirely incorrect.

 

Zitao checks his reflection from one of the polished pillars of the Hermitage Museum. A part of the museum is closed off, and his eyes sweep the floor. Impenetrable. Even Zitao wouldn’t dare venture in there without three months of pre-planning and detailed scouting. The Pavilion Hall is busy, teeming with media, guests of honor, the Investigative Committee of Russia and the Federal Security Service; Zitao feels invisible. Just another suited, bored, trust fund baby who has a lot of time in his hands.

 

But the lovely thing about misdirection is the grand sweep of the hand, the swift elegant turn of a lovely assistant, the bigger shinier thing that every person in the room will look at.

 

Zitao’s eyes are fixed on James Cox’s creation. The Peacock Clock – three life-sized birds favored by the Greek goddess, Hera. “Do your magic, hyung.” Zitao says, the cuff of his sleeves already undone.

 

He hears Jongdae crack his knuckles. “Blind feed is up and running. You have the same exit route just as practiced. Two minutes before they figure it’s a pre-recording. Break a leg, Puddytat.”

 

Zitao counts to three in his head. Jongdae takes another sip of his soda and the Hermitage Museum blacks out. Zitao executes the second part of the magic, makes it to the 2 minute window and catches a late drink in a bar five blocks away from the crime scene. Zitao isn’t a magician, but he does a damn good way of disappearing. He watches the breaking news, he feels slightly sorry for the mix disappointment and anger and probably awe in the faces of the police. There are more media commentary and repeated B-rolls of the event prior to the black out. He thinks he did a good job of shielding himself away from the security camera. He thinks of calling the attendant back at the museum, but Zitao doesn’t like lingering, doesn’t like attachments.

 

The next news flash shows the hollowed frame of Francisco Goya’s The Madhouse. Channel 9 exclusive, the text reads. Zitao’s lips curve into a smile when he sees the insignia on the corner, non-imposing, generic, and untraceable. A cat paw print that slowly smudges into a three dark jagged claw marks. Xiao Mao – Little Cat.

 

“I knew it,” the bartender grunts, sliding Zitao’s Red Lotus on the dark counter. “He’s not really after that ugly clock.”

 

Zitao smiles and takes a sip of his drink. His Russian is hoary and accented. But it’s provocative. “It’s too…huge.” The bartender is handsome, almost androgynous, a reminiscent of an older Andrey Kupchenko, high cheekbones, soft lips, piercing eyes. He invited him back to his hotel and he sinks into his knees, the famous oil-on-panel painting safely tucked in a cylinder. Zitao eyes it from where it’s sitting in the corner of his room and takes the bartender’s cock into his mouth. Adrenaline pumps in his veins and he doesn’t mind the scratch of carpet against his knees. Tomorrow, the Kupchenko look alike will be gone. As for the painting, it will be shipped to one of his many vaults in Switzerland.

 

In stealing, there’s no later acknowledgement. There’s no ‘I did this, watch me’. But there is the thrum of pleasure under his skin, the slow crawl of skin over his spine, his fingers pressing roughly against the flesh, marking, possessing – a stand-in for the work of art he can’t hold in his hands.

 

 

_3 PM, Busan, South Korea_

 

Sehun works behind multiple split screens. His fingers can map out codes at break neck speed, his eyes rarely squinting when he speed reads the New York Times while catching up with his missed Tokyo Ghoul episodes. He spins in his chair, waiting for Chanyeol to check in with him.

 

Technically, Chanyeol doesn’t need to. Sehun can track him from one of his screens with the GPS embedded in Chanyeol’s phone. It’s all about the satellite, everything is traceable nowadays, internet history, credit cards, Netflix suggestions, ATM deposits, IP addresses. But Chanyeol values his privacy or some shit. It’s not like Chanyeol’s going out on a date. What they’ll be doing is robbing the largest bank in Seoul.

 

Sehun does like magic tricks. Hypnotism, coin appearing from the back of an ear, sawing someone in half then putting them back together. But it’s not his style. Sehun goes for the offense. Straightforward jabs, surprise left hooks, a powerful uppercut. Square-L1-R2-Circle-Triangle. There are serials into perfecting a combo, a cheat code if necessary, and Sehun knows every trick in the book. It does help them get out unscathed.

 

“I’m pulling up, Sehun-ah.” Sehun’s radio comes alive, Chanyeol’s voice crackles and Sehun adjusts the volume. “How’re we looking?”

 

Sehun tries not to grin because chanyeol always knows like a guide dog, or an oddly accurate mood ring. “Your hair’s a mess,” he says, pulling up a live footage of Chanyeol in his black and yellow street sports motorcycle that he fondly calls Bumblebee. Chanyeol waves at the camera and takes off his helmet. He replaces it with an American president latex mask he got from eBay last Halloween.

 

“How do I look?”

 

“Hopeless, desperate for love. And corrupt.”

 

Chanyeol laughs. “You fucking love me, you dipshit.”

 

Sehun has known Chanyeol for more than half his life. They’re polar opposites but they work. Chanyeol is a firecracker, light him up and he won’t stop until everything is up in the sky. He hates planning and he loves dodging bullets. Tell him no and he’ll do it. Sehun loves him dearly, like an annoying older brother with a foundation of unspoken hero worship, like a parental replacement for his emotional stability.

 

But today is not the day he’ll tell him that. “Your face is dipshit. Try not to get shot, hyung.” Sehun had patched him up the last time. Chanyeol refuses to go to a hospital because any wound caused by a gun would have to be reported. He asked Sehun to load one of those Encyclopedia Britannica videos on how to treat a bullet wound. Sehun had felt faint after while Chanyeol drank half a bottle of whiskey. Chanyeol said they were at least a few millions richer.

 

The KB Kookmin Bank is an ugly piece of architecture. Security over aesthetics – smart yet not so tough to crack. Sehun has been fucking with computers for as long as he can remember. In the orphanage where he grew up, the use of computer was limited but their library was full with books on computing technology. Sehun drank them up while Chanyeol reenacted his favorite scenes from Harry Potter.

 

They have been doing this for years. Chanyeol pummels their way in and Sehun guides him out. This certain job is tricky, Chanyeol needs to get in and manually insert a virus through a flash drive. Sehun had coded it, made it small enough just to startle the system so he can shadow his way in. The original plan was to ask the teller out on a dinner, made it seem like Chanyeol was picking her up from work. But Chanyeol doesn’t like rom-coms. He likes Bruce Lee films, that Angelina Jolie film about hackers, the Adjustment Bureau, all of Mario Puzo books.

 

Sehun watches Chanyeol walk towards the front of the bank and feels him smiling under the creepy mask. He incapacitates the guard on duty and Sehun hears the sickening sound of bone breaking when fist connects with a jaw. For his size, Chanyeol is swift, landing two more blows on the solar plexus, then handcuffs the guard on his station. He tucks the stolen handgun on his belt, choosing the shotgun, walking in the lobby with his choice of weapon poised over his head. Chanyeol loves theatrics, this one included. Chanyeol has his ways but he’s not a killer. He still tears up whenever he remembers Curry, their childhood pet dog.

 

“Fucking hurry.” Sehun hisses over the line and Chanyeol finds the security camera again and waves.

 

“Hey, smile. Come on, this will be on the news later.” Chanyeol rounds up the remaining employees. The bank’s closing in – two managers and three tellers, one guard on the first floor. The bank teller is pretty even through the grainy security camera feed. Sehun bites his nails. Chanyeol could have done this the easy way and Sehun had shown his concern with doubt rather than worry. “I wish they’d use my good angle next time.”

 

“What good angle?” Sehun hates the parts Chanyeol loves, but he compartmentalizes the dull ache in his head as he hacks into the traffic system, rerouting a couple of heavy delivery trucks to delay the police response. “There are three more blues coming from the east wing. ETA, 5 minutes. Police in 10. I’ll try to stall them.”

 

“Camera loves me. I should have been an idol. Relax, Sehun, I got this.”

 

Sehun rolls his eyes. “If we had stuck to my plan, this would have been over like, yesterday. You should get over your fear of women.”

 

“I’m not scared of women!” Chanyeol argues, gesticulating wildly. His supposed hostages flinch in fear and Chanyeol mumbles an apology.

 

“Yeah? What about that girl from work? Gayeon? She’s nice.” Sehun’s fingers itch and he sighs when Chanyeol finds a port, watching him fumble with the flash drive. “Two minutes til security gets there, hyung.”

 

“She can nicely beat your skinny ass, that’s what. Stop meddling with my love life, okay? I’ll date when I’m ready – you’re in. Get me my money.” Chanyeol is out of the door by the time the security arrives. His phone beeps, a confirmation that Sehun had sent him a couple of alternate routes just in case he gets hassled by police cars. Sehun’s hunched over his keyboard, and he’s smiling. In 6 minutes, he’s isolated the bank accounts he wanted – Senator Park, Congressman Hwang, the Ambassador to Finland – all involved in a money embezzlement scandal two years ago. Sehun had opened the file case three months prior to their heist, deeming them all guilty for using the people’s funds for personal gain.

 

Sehun isn’t a magician. He’s a thief through and through but he couldn’t stomach it when the strong take advantage of the weak. Back in the orphanage, Sehun would get shit from older kids when he tried to divide the Halloween candy loot equally so the younger kids could have them too. He had his head dunked in the toilet bowl a couple of times until Chanyeol came around and thought him how to use his elbow – it’s a hard bone, he told Sehun, give it all you got and they won’t bother you anymore. After their first heist, Chanyeol told Sehun that he’s like the cuter version of a modern day Robin Hood and Sehun had punched him for real. Chanyeol had laughed and kissed his cheek.

 

Sehun makes a hefty donation to two NGOs that advocate for the research of AIDS and breast cancer, and gives Chanyeol his well-deserved percentage. Sehun adds his finishing touches and soon, just in time for the six o'clock news, every billboard in Seoul is filled with documents after documents of evidences against the three politicians. They are on loop, watermarked by a soft filter that blinks exactly 5 times before the video begins again.

 

Happy Happy Tea Time by Milk and Honey, it says. White text, Arial, over a soft baby pink background. Sehun isn’t a magician, but he likes leaving a particular signature.

 

 

_Somewhere in Seoul_

 

“Okay, what about…macaroni and cheese over beef patty?”

 

Jongdae lowers his tablet and looks at Zitao pointedly, stopping midway at reading about the robbing of the KB Kookmin Bank. They’re in Jongdae’s apartment where the blinds are half closed because Zitao can’t think if it’s too bright. “Sounds like a walking heart attack.”

 

Zitao brightens and twirls the pen in his hand. He writes that down and shovels another spoonful of garlic rice in his mouth. “That’s a good one. New on the menu, Walking Heart Attack. Bacon cheeseburger with candied onions topped by baked macaroni and cheese.”

 

“How do people eat in your restaurant?” Jongdae chuckles, reaching for his coffee. Zitao’s in a good mood. Their job in Russia was a public spectacle, not a rare occurrence for Xiao Mao but like an addict, Zitao gets the fill of his high from the aftermath.

 

“Generously? You should be more open to experimenting with your food.” Zitao’s eyes twinkle in mischief, making a V-sign with his fingers and placing them in front of his mouth, lewdly wiggling his tongue in between. Jongdae chokes.

 

“Hey you know—“ Speaking of, Jongdae wants to say, but he thinks it’s rather crude so he puts his tablet down and leans forward to squeeze Zitao’s wrist. “Li Yin-noona said yes.”

 

Zitao looks at him questioningly, one eyebrow raised. He looks at Jongdae like he said something in another language. They switch between Korean and Mandarin most of the time. It’s for Jongdae to practice, help him out with the woman he’s seeing for the past year. Zitao had met her couple of times since then. She’s pretty and she makes Jongdae a blabbering puppy in need of constant attention and affection. They were cute. But Zitao hadn’t realized it was serious.

 

“What?”

 

“Said yes, you know. I’m going to get married. Be a husband. Dad?” Jongdae looks sheepish. He’s smiling like its Christmas morning. Zitao hadn’t even seen him during a Christmas morning but this is close.

 

Zitao has three hundred questions firing in his brain at the moment. What about _me_? being one of them. What they do is not forever, but he didn’t know Jongdae had already carved out a path for himself. One that did not include hacking into highly secured mainframes. “Why?”

 

Jongdae’s smile fades when he realizes what’s happening and Zitao feels guilty. He shouldn’t have been too obvious with the early onset of panic that decorates his face. “I’m sorry, Peach. I should have told you – I got the ring last month. It’s…pretty, you know? I just. I didn’t want to wait any longer.”

 

They made a promise before this started.. They were both sprawled out on top of the Cultural Center of the Philippines, their target is an ancient device used for embalming. They took a moment to watch the starless sky, passing a bottle of coconut juice between them. Good for the kidneys, Jongdae had said. If Jongdae had wanted out, he’d be given the out. Zitao knew that losing Jongdae as a partner didn’t mean he’d lose him as a friend. But it still felt like he was losing both his arms, his security blanket, like he was back in Qingdao and he watched his mother’s coffin lowering slowly in the earth. And he was alone again.

 

Zitao stands up instead, pushing all of his three hundred questions in the back of his head. Maybe he could find another partner. Maybe he could work alone. Maybe he could take a break. This is another bump, a detour, a word wrongly placed on the crossword puzzle, life and fucking lemons. Zitao shakes his head and reaches for Jongdae. It’s been a while since he hugged him and Jongdae doesn’t feel as small. Maybe he’s expanding too, the bones and muscles in his body stretching to accommodate a new life – a loving wife, children, a new future.

 

“I hope your kids don’t get your height,” Zitao mumbles against the crown of Jongdae’s head. Jongdae punches his arm playfully. When Jongdae laughs and buries his head on Zitao’s shoulder, Zitao doesn’t feel as less.

 

 

_Gangnam, Seoul, South Korea_

 

Chanyeol doesn’t live with Sehun. Chanyeol lives in another part of the city where he’s closer to his part-time job, bartending and then spinning on Friday nights. But somehow, Chanyeol has Sehun’s address listed down as his own. So when Sehun arrives from grocery shopping that Thursday afternoon and collects his mail, he finds a large envelope sandwiched between his phone bill and Reader’s Digest. It’s for Park Chanyeol, from Kyung-Hee University.

 

Sehun doesn’t touch what isn’t his so it stays unopened. But when Chanyeol comes to collect him that Friday night, Sehun makes him wait for exactly 20 minutes so he can calm the angry waves in his stomach. He knows the answer but his willingness to hear the news is almost up to par when he realized that he was too old to be adopted into families. Sehun was 10.

 

“Here,” he says, handing the envelope to Chanyeol, his forefinger and thumb pinching the corner of the envelope like he doesn’t want to let go. Chanyeol’s hands are always sweaty and he his grin is lopsided when he wipes his palm on his ripped jeans and gives it a little tug. Sehun lets go.

 

Chanyeol’s face does 10 different kinds of things as he processes what’s going on -- confused, elated, thrilled, anxious. Sehun’s face remains unreadable as he almost wishes that it’s a rejection letter. It’s cruel, but humans are inherently selfish. He turns his back and opens the fridge, newly-stocked with banana milk and kimchi and eggs, a contrast with how hollow he feels inside. He pretends to look for something. He grabs a can of root beer.

 

Sehun hears Chanyeol curse, the kind that doesn’t say bad.

 

“Fuck, Sehun. I made it.” Sehun looks up but Chanyeol doesn’t meet his eyes. His eyes are on the paper, wild, screaming, so fucking enthralled that Sehun could only take a long gulp from his drink. When Chanyeol finally pulls everything to his core, the heat turning into flame, he jumps on his feet and puts Sehun in a headlock.

 

Sehun holds his soda out, trying not to spill it everywhere. When Sehun was 10 and Chanyeol was 12, both of them too old enough to be picked, to be assimilated in a household, Chanyeol had thrown an arm around him just like he was doing now. The light squeeze of triceps around his neck felt sincere and warm. I’ll stick around, Chanyeol told him, you’ll never get rid of me. Sehun didn’t feel like crying then. He elbowed Chanyeol in the stomach instead, just like he had taught him.

“No, Sehun. Shit, oh my god, I need to go get new clothes. I got in, oh my god!”

 

Chanyeol was the closest thing he’ll ever have to a family, and family always has each other’s back. Sehun decides to grow up. “You know if you wanted a diploma, I could get you one. You don’t even have to wake up early. No exams, no public speaking…”

 

Chanyeol’s eyes are shiny when Sehun finally studies his face. “Thanks, Sehun-ah.”

 

_Jongdae’s Wedding, Hong Kong_

 

Zhang Li Yin walks down the aisle not with a Faye Wong song with Jongdae tearing up in front of the altar. Li Yin glows – Zitao thinks she looks quite poetic with her loose curls and her Vera Wang wedding dress. Zitao stands a little straighter beside Jongdae, nudging him gently with a grin on his face. “Wow, you just made the statistical cliché of crying grooms.”

 

Jongdae swats him away without taking his eyes away from his bride. “Shut up, you undeserving best man.”

 

Zitao hides a snicker in response. At the middle of the ceremony, during the exchange of vows, Zitao tries not to get emotional. Weddings suck if you’re that single friend who’s pushing 30, but it’s not too intimidating once he had his fill of cuba libre.

 

Any occasion is an excuse for alcohol so by the time Fei is done trash talking her ex and moves on to find Henry, Zitao secures a spot close to the mobile bar.

 

The only other stool is occupied by one of Jongdae’s best man. Zitao does remember being introduced, but the name continues to slip him. They’re wearing identical suits, a lavender flower sitting snugly in the coat pocket of his jacket, dyed hair in soft hues of chocolate neatly slicked back. He’s handsome, more on the pretty side with heavy eyelashes fanning the high swells of his cheekbones. “What are your policies on one night stands?”

 

He looks at Zitao, brows furrowed. There’s a mole on the side of his neck and Zitao flashes him a sticky grin. “Weddings make you horny?”

 

“No, but that guy over there?” Zitao points to a modelesque Zhou Mi. “He’s going to round up the whole entourage and make us dance to Accidentally in Love.”

 

Zitao sees him wince. “Okay, let’s go.”

 

 

When Sehun slides the key card to his hotel room, he affirms himself that he’s only doing this because he doesn’t want to dance something from Shrek. The wedding was pleasant, intimate, and he had to clench his fists a couple of times to stop himself from crying when Jongdae had read his vows to his lovely wife. But dancing wasn’t on the list of his priorities.

 

If his nails are digging crescents into his own palms now, it’s because his skin is burning from under his suit. Sehun anticipates.

 

He could be a serial killer, you know? Chanyeol’s voice rings through his head when he invites Huang Zitao inside. It’s one of the superior suites, bath and shower, LCD TV with satellite channels, a mini bar, air conditioning – there’s even a balcony but Sehun doesn’t care much for the Hong Kong skyline unless he’s monitoring smog levels from his computer.

 

“Been a while?” Zitao’s hands are the wandering type. One sits on Sehun’s back, warm, indulgent, probably capable of softly holding Sehun’s jaw open kind of hands.

 

“I thought I was being subtle.” Sehun drops his keys on the side table and turns around, his own palm sliding over a solid chest.

 

“You keep licking your lips.”

 

“Bad habit. I’m fine.”

 

“Use lip balm.” Zitao’s eyes are on his lips, not exactly condemning. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” Zitao sways them on their feet and Sehun catches a whiff of his cologne. He doesn’t think that serial killers smell this good, branded, intoxicating. Zitao’s eyeliner is slightly smudged and Sehun watches the charcoal get caught on the flat of his thumb when he touches Zitao’s face with reluctant fingers, over cheekbones, over his lower lash line, over the swell of his lips.

 

Sehun can easily find out about him: make a quick trip to the bathroom, go on his secure line, type Zitao’s name and pore quickly through his tax records, old employment, school transcripts. Instead, he reminds himself of what it feels like to be touched by someone else, a forgotten bomb that detonates when Zitao’s hand travels down his spine.

 

They’re still swaying on their feet. Zitao is only a little bit taller, Sehun can meet his eyes if he tilts his head back a little more. Surprisingly, Zitao pulls him close. Sehun takes a deep breath and drops a kiss on the base of his ear. “Kissing sounds nice, though.”

 

Sehun feels the tender glide of Zitao’s palm on the back of his head, only caught in a half moan when Zitao’s fingers threads through his hair and roughly tugs.

 

 

_Two weeks and a half later_

 

It’s been 20 days and then some. Zitao goes back to his old life. The Walking Heart Attack is a hit at his restaurant and he plans on making it a seasonal thing to keep the hype going. His next job is in Venice. He manages to do it by himself, stealing an oil painting by Canaletto. He sets a new record, an hour for a 1768 view of the canals of Venice – it’s too long, too risky with half an hour police car pursuit feature. Zitao breaks a sweat for the first time in five years.

 

He did lose vital senses with Jongdae gone. Zitao calls him after that, forgetting about the 12 hour difference. Zitao sits in the middle of Italy, wearing a cream sweater and beige pleated pants, nude moccasins in his feet. It takes 8 rings and two drop calls before he gets through. “Hyung, I can’t do this without you.”

 

Jongdae answers with a groan from Hawaii. He’s probably sunburnt and Li Yin is rubbing soothing aloe vera on his back. “Zitao?”

 

“You have to come back.” Zitao is generous with his whines.

 

“I can’t. I’m trying to make kids. I’ll find you someone else, don’t worry.”

 

Someone else comes in the form of Jackson Wang, Hong Kong born, SNU drop out. He’s not as precise as Jongdae but he’s as lethal on the offense as Zitao. “Hey at least you have the same taste in music?” Jongdae tells him over the phone, laughing softly as Zitao retells a totally-not-exaggerated account of what happened in Thailand. Jackson’s too enthusiastic, gets distracted, a little in for the thrill. 

 

“You mean like you?”

 

Zitao scoffs, then his voice softens. “I can’t do this, hyung.”

 

Jongdae pauses. “Then maybe you should focus on things that you can do, Taozi. You can’t do this forever.”

 

Zitao hears Li Yin ask him which skirt goes well with her top and Jongdae replies in his almost perfect Mandarin, ‘What about that white dress? That’s easier to get off.’ Zitao tells Jongdae he’s gross and ends the call.

 

There has been a point where Zitao had believed that he could abracadabra his way through this. He’s not a magician because the stakes are larger – his life, Jongdae’s. But Jongdae’s right. He can’t keep doing this just to prove his father that Zitao is better than him, smarter, harder to get caught.

 

He’s lucky to have found Jongdae sitting in the Chemistry lab in college. Jongdae was skinny, short. But his face was of an old man’s framed in thick glasses. He had been hacking the university’s main frame and Zitao was eyeing an original Rembrandt at the President’s office. Zitao said, “Could use someone like you.” And they always had each other’s backs since then.

 

 

Three days after the wedding, Sehun gets antsy. But without Chanyeol, he returns to his hacking roots. He feels juvenile, unutilized – a moody teenager. So he puts up a site, only slightly less sophisticated because it looks more like a sub-Reddit page than WikiLeaks. But aside from that, it holds highly relevant and sensitive database. Equipment expenditure on warfare, scanned documents on tax evasions, wide censorships on African-Korean communities, extended national security plans – Sehun doesn’t sign it. It’s not Milk & Honey without Chanyeol.

 

A week later, he checks on Chanyeol. He’s a full-pledged student now, the eldest in his class. It doesn’t matter because his enthusiasm is like some youth potion. Sehun knows that soon, all of his class will fall in love with him.

 

“You want to get a diploma but your ass is still in bed. You have an 8 o’clock, hyung.”

 

Sehun hears Chanyeol curse over the line. He knows he’s hopping on one foot, trying to get his pants and socks at the same time. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

 

“Minus 10 points for Slytherin, Park.” But Sehun is kind and a true guardian angel and he helps Chanyeol through two red lights. Chanyeol visits him that night, his bag full of books. He apparently bought a new set of school supplies: highlighter, mechanical pencils, 3-in-1 Pororo erasers, white-out, staple remover – it’s not guns and USBs with computer viruses anymore.

 

This has been Chanyeol’s dream, something that he kept on putting off for years. Sehun thought he had given up, but he should have known better. Chanyeol isn’t a quitter.

 

“It’s fun, you know. The teachers, the classmates. The food sucks, though.”

 

Sehun hums and thumbs through Chanyeol’s Principles of Software Development course outline. He could have enrolled too, get a real degree, open his own software firm. He and Chanyeol could make it. Chanyeol’s good at storyboards, hooking people to the story, a vibrant imagination. Sehun can code them, build the system, bring the images in Chanyeol’s head to life.

 

One day, it’s going to feel like engaging small talks with someone Sehun had gotten complacent with. Or an ex whom he doesn’t know how to talk to anymore. He doesn’t want that. Right now, Sehun feels like they’re worlds apart, a time zone between them, a ten year discography gap. He sees Chanyeol sticking ticker tapes on the pages of his notebooks and asks Sehun when he wants to see his school. Sehun shakes his head. Maybe they can meet in the middle. He doesn’t have to stretch a rubber band precisely because he knows it will snap.

 

“You should really ask Song Gayeon to make you homemade lunch. I heard she’s—“ Chanyeol throws him the cap of his neon green highlighter.

 

 

Zitao’s in his old jacket, his hands hot. He’s in Itaewon, surrounded by thrift shops, reproduction Korean furniture, tailored suits, Middle-eastern restaurants, and Korean pottery. He doesn’t look foreign here with his make-up less face and dark hair.

 

He buys some stationery and then proceeds to the appliances. It’s seriously crowded, and if he’s not a head taller than everyone else, he would have drowned. Jongdae hates Itaewon, he recalls, and he’d opt to graze at food stalls on the other side of the road than watch Zitao haggle for an antique lamp.

 

“Sorry,” Zitao says, mumbling under his breath as he purposely bumps against a stranger in the dark suit. He’s in Zitao drops the Cinnamoroll pad paper – misdirection.

 

“Watch where you’re going.” The man’s in a suit – class A knock off Armani. There are tattoos peeking under the collar of his shirt, the back of his hand too. Zitao takes a calculated step like someone had pushed him. Suit shoves him back. Zitao apologizes again – then the sleight of hand, wallet seemingly thick and pulsating in his hand.

 

The contents of the wallet doesn’t even come close to his restaurants quarterly revenue but it’s enough. He thinks of what he’ll do half an hour from now. He’ll come home, check on the closing figures from the branch in Gangnam, take a long bath, maybe call that Oh Sehun from Jongdae’s wedding.

 

It’s a far cry from ducking bullets and duplicating blue prints – those things will cling on Zitao like his favorite soap, but right now, he fishes his phone out from his pocket and calls his branch manager for his ideas on expanding to Busan. 

 

 

 

Sehun meets Zitao again in a bar in Hongdae on a Friday afternoon. Chanyeol spins at 6 but he’s there early, making Sehun help him review for an exam on Saturday in exchange for drinks and the complete torrents of Hawaii Five O. This isn’t infiltrating the Bureau of the Treasury of South Korea, but it’s enough.

 

“Take the exam for me, Sehun-ah.” Chanyeol’s feet are flat on the floor even if he’s sitting on the bar stool. His Macbook is open and he’s arranging the tracks for tonight’s show.

 

“Something about a bed and you laying on it. Moving on.” Sehun smarts, scraping the ice cream on top of his root beer float with the back of a spoon and depositing it in his mouth. “What’s the DRY principle?”

 

“Don’t Repeat Yourself.” Chanyeol’s layering tracks on Magix – he’s trying his hand at multitasking and Sehun’s chest swells with an odd sense of pride. “Uh, break down complex components into sub-components until the complexity is reduced to a single tax?”

 

Sehun rolls his eyes. “10 points for Slytherin.”

 

Chanyeol beams. His phone goes off and he rushes towards the back entrance. When he comes back, his expression reads something between good will and mayhem. Zitao trails after him in a grey scoop neck shirt, a fashionable dog tag hanging around his neck. Sehun tries not to choke on the stem of the maraschino cherry that he’s trying to knot with his tongue. “Yah, Oh Sehun, meet the future of burgers.”

 

 

“I thought we’re honoring my one night stand policy,” Sehun grumbles, pulling out his tablet. He has a default framework ready. Zitao is seated next to him and Sehun thinks he can feel his slow calculating smile like the first time he picked him in a room full of beautiful people. There’s a good distance between them in the VIP lounge but Sehun can smell his cologne, light yet playful. Below them, Chanyeol is sampling his mixes. Sehun resists the urge to hack into Kyung-Hee and switch Chanyeol’s major to Medicine, minor in Obstetrics.

 

He shouldn’t have told him about the Hong Kong hook up. Not a hook up-hook up. But something on the scale of kissing and ass grabbing while listening to Paula Cole on loop. Zitao had been careful with him, patient and waiting until it’s Sehun who was pinning him under the soft dip of the mattress with the length of his body. Sehun woke up the next morning with Zitao sitting up, his bowtie missing, fingers gently stroking Sehun’s hair.

 

“I need a website made that’s all.” Zitao’s voice feels like livewire. It’s the same voice he used when he told Sehun he smelled sweet and then pressed his nose against the inside of his thighs. Sehun shivers.

 

“You have Odesk. And LinkedIn. Outsourcing isn’t exactly a small world.”

 

“I told Jongdae I wanted someone who’s good with minimal supervision.”

 

Sehun snorts. “You’re a client, not my boss.”

 

“I told Jongdae I wanted someone good with their hands, then.”

 

No ire ever felt as cozy as this – building up and taking form before settling in Sehun’s gut. Zitao is a stranger, a land mine, a recent discovery. Sehun isn’t opposed to trying new things but he’s opposed to a new thing becoming something more.

 

Sehun stops mapping Zitao’s restaurant’s website and looks at him. He’s right, Zitao is smiling. “You know what. Tell me all about it.”

 

Zitao tells him all about it in Sehun’s home – the actual home, the other room adjacent to his untraceable, tall servers and multiple split screen monitors. His lips are moist and hot on Sehun’s neck, the cold rise of Zitao’s rings pressing on the curve of his spine when he grabs the back of his shirt. “I really want a website. I’ll pay you your fee plus complimentary lunch?”

 

Sehun groans when Zitao gently sucks on the jut of his collarbone. “For life?” Sehun digs his nails on Zitao’s naked shoulder.

 

“Six months?”

 

“Deal.”

 

Zitao’s kisses simmer down to nips and sucks not hard enough to bruise. He’s careful, Sehun thinks, like a burning house muted to a small flame. Sehun wants all of his embers, the hot coals, the fast and magical consuming of film negatives catching on fire, but Zitao lifts his head from his neck and kisses his cheek, the shallow groove between his nose and upper lip before sliding his tongue into Sehun’s mouth instead. They’ve done this before in Hong Kong, Sehun can still remember the taste of lime in his mouth. Sehun circles his fingers around Zitao’s wrists, his thumb finding his pulse points. They’re quick, Sehun’s even quicker. “I’ll send the drafts by the end of the month.” The thing with Zitao is he surprises Sehun into surprising himself.

 

“I’ll schedule a meeting.”

 

“Emails work, you know.”

 

“Are you purposely so obtuse that you cockblock yourself from a good fuck?” Zitao pulls away, laughing breathlessly. His lips are dark, chest flushed. Sehun admires his body with careful sweeps of his eyes before picking up Zitao’s shirt. He chucks it in his face.

 

“Theoretically a good fuck.”

 

Zitao puts his shirt back on. “You’re missing out.”

 

“Link me to user reviews online.”

 

Sehun’s laugh is sly, an invitation. Zitao makes a determined face before removing his shirt again.

 

 

_Sehun’s apartment. Apgujeong, South Korea_

 

Skill set wise, Sehun can finish coding the rest of Zitao’s website in a lesser timeline since there’s not much to do. Chanyeol has officially retired and Sehun is left with his lined up projects: mainstreaming new approaches to coding language, finishing a 2k puzzle piece set, maybe adopt a cat, get more clients and maybe make this his official source of income.

 

His phone buzzes and Sehun is conditioned that it’s Chanyeol. No one texts him anyway. But this time it’s a mamegoma sticker, cutely flopping, hearts all around it. _Want to have dinner?_ A few seconds later. _I mean, want to professionally meet up and review your drafts?_

 

Sehun looks around, and then again before letting himself smile. _You’re annoying. You’re fired._

 

Zitao sends another sticker. This time, it’s an animated hamster pawing against Sehun’s screen. _You can’t fire me, I’m your client!_

 

_Contract termination~_ Sehun types back, almost regretting the tiny squiggle that he added in the end.

 

When his phone buzzes again, Sehun snatches it quickly, smiling, thinking it’s Zitao. This time it’s Chanyeol.

 

_You watching the news?_

 

Curious, Sehun minimizes his Dreamweaver and pulls up the live stream for SBS 8 News. Sehun is familiar with the location of the feed, somewhere in the piers of Hannam. Art professor, Kim Joonmyun of KNU, suffers a loss of property when the container terminal was hit by fire caused by still an unknown accelerant.

 

A few weeks ago, just after their Busan bust, there had been a series of petty crimes around the country, all orchestrated randomly, no consolidated impact, no magnanimous loss for the victims.

 

It’s a warning flag, one that he has been observing for the past week. Curious incidents that Sehun had uploaded into a software that notifies him once a certain algorithm is hit. It’s seemingly random, if Kim Joonmyun didn’t use to go by the name Suho, a retired thief that was a fan of Renaissance paintings.

 

He texts Chanyeol back. _Why do you think this concerns me?_

 

Chanyeol doesn’t need to reply. When Sehun looks up, he sees a familiar teacup insignia and the letters M & H spray painted on one of the containers

 

 

_Café Pawz, Gangnam_

 

The French bulldog on Sehun’s knee serves a pleasant distraction. He takes a snapshot of her and kakaos it to Tao with the caption _ugly-cute like you_ which makes Sehun the biggest jerk in the planet because no dogs are ugly. Unfortunately for Sehun too, Zitao isn’t the one he’s meeting today.

 

A few days ago, unsealed records of forgery from an architect named Lee Taemin is released to the media. Sehun tagged him a few years ago as Ace, a seasoned and retired hacker that was notorious for shutting down poultry smuggling from Thailand to Seoul. They’re not friends, but in the hacking circle, everyone knows everyone. But even then, there’s honor among thieves.

 

They’re not that difficult to remember. First is to not snitch on your fellow thieves. Second is to not reveal the secret, the glamour, methods of operations are to be protected. And third, the most important of all, is to not steal from one of your own.

 

Yet, Sehun’s backend hacking codes are all over Lee Taemin’s case file.

 

“I always thought Milk and Honey were girls – or is it one of you a girl?”

 

Sehun pets the Sally the bulldog behind the ears. “Just me, sorry.” Sehun casts him a wary gaze, adjusting his snapback over his head. Lee Taemin looks older in person; could be the stress or it could be spending a night in interrogation. Sehun isn’t jealous.

 

“How about being a rat? Gonna apologize for that too?”

 

A middle class architect wouldn’t be able to post bail that quickly, but it isn’t impossible to a seasoned hacker with unlimited funds. Taemin sits across him, blond hair swept back stylishly, the text of his shirt reads MONEYBAGS in Helvetica is glaring against the black material. “I’m retired, I don’t know why…” He flicks his wrist to make a point. “This professional lifespan is short-lived, you know that. When we say we’re out, we’re out.”

 

“You know it’s not me.”

 

“That’s not the point. Everyone thinks it’s you.”

 

Sally the bulldog makes a sound and Sehun pets her again. “Not you.”

 

Taemin leans back, arms crossed against his chest. A Pomeranian mix paws at his leg and he picks it up, settling it against his chest, tilting his head when it starts to lick his cheek. “Because I know you. It looks like you but I checked – it’s a cheap imitation, but believable imitation. I… Joonmyun hyung thinks someone’s after you.”

 

“This is crazy. If that’s the case then this isn’t a rat.” Sehun mumbles under his breath, the wheels of his brain turning quietly yet at the speed of light, a bus ticket that can go anywhere, anytime. Sehun looks around, feeling warm under his collar. He knows Chanyeol will help him if he asked, but whoever is after Sehun makes sure that all fingers would be pointed back to him. It’s smart. Sehun wrinkles his nose and scratches Sally’s head.

 

“Any ideas? Stole someone’s girl in the past? Kicked someone’s cat? Knocked off a few lawn gnomes?”

 

Sehun shakes his head. Oh Sehun doesn’t make enemies, he makes website for a living. But under his pseudonym, the list is inexhaustible. “I don’t know. But tell them to be careful. I haven’t made a move since—“

 

“Busan. Right. I thought you retired. There was speculation you got caught. Interpol thought you got locked up for a different reason. Either way, they’re looking at you now. I don’t know if I can convince the community otherwise but be careful. If the situation escalates, it means you have a painted neon gogo club sign on your back.”

 

Sehun smiles at the metaphor. “You be careful. I heard you can’t leave the country.” From under his seat, he pulls a Marks and Spencer gift bag, slides it on the table towards Taemin. “But I heard there’s a 4 AM private charter to Hawaii tomorrow. New IDs, passport, some cash, they’re all there.”

 

If Taemin is surprised, it’s fleeting, and Sehun fails to catch it right away. What he sees is a slow smile, a curve of lips before Taemin snatches the bag. “You’ve always been so charitable.”

 

Their iced latte turns bland and that’s where they part, a shake of a hand and an SD card swiftly exchanged from Taemin to Sehun. “What’s left of the CCTV footage. Not much but Joonmyun hyung says tea’s just a little bit better when mildly steeped.”

 

 

_Fortune Tower, Beijing, China_

 

Wang Feifei chooses to tender her overtime that day despite the bad weather condition. She wants to come home, kick off her heels and soak in her tub until she’s pink before the presentation tomorrow. It’s important that they close the deal tomorrow. Everyone’s counting on her data expertise.

 

She has tabs and tabs of Powerpoint and Excel opened, a descriptive data after the other are stacked in a neat color-coded table. Her coffee pot is on the metal plate, steaming and warm for the next 2 hours. It’s somewhere between the last two slides of her Powerpoint pitch and her third cup of coffee when her phone rings – the private line – her landlord. When she answers, she can hear police sirens in the background and she stands from her seat and races home.

 

_Two days later, Seoul_

 

Zitao paces in his apartment, coffee in one hand, a warm snuggie around his shoulders. He hasn’t slept for 48 hours but his headache dissipated after the flight details of Fei checked in and and confirmed. It was a close call, a definite luck – and Zitao doesn’t believe in luck.

 

Arson Unit says that the cause was the oven’s faulty wiring left plugged in before it overheated. Funny because Fei never cooks and her only time to be finally home was last night until she decided to pull another overtime, inadvertently saving her life. Zitao is seething, a collected anger that stems from his inaction, the numbing feeling of trying to put his head above the water. Fei is one of his, not of blood but they go thicker than that.

 

He’s not used to the feeling of having something taken away from him – almost taken away from him. He comforts himself that Fei is in a flight to Amsterdam where she can lie low for the meantime.

 

The urge to call Jongdae is strong, but he’s sure that he hasn’t heard of the news yet. Zitao prefers him to be in his blissfully ignorant state. No need to alarm him when his safety isn’t in jeopardy. The only thought that comforts him is that Jongdae, even as Xiao Mao, had always operated in the background.

 

Zitao calls Jackson instead.

 

He answers with a “’Sup, man,” on the second ring. Zitao quickly summarizes.

 

“That’s the talk of the ha—brainies right now. They say it’s set up, others say they’re selling the information to outsiders.”

 

“Outsiders? What? Vigilantes?”

 

There’s a pause. Zitao figures out that Jackson might have shrugged in response. “Jackson, find this—tea cup thing person for me.”

 

Jackson snorts. “It’s not that easy. They’ll be onto me in 60 seconds flat. This isn’t some James Bond shit, man.”

 

“It baffles me that you and Jackie Chan are from the same country—“

 

“Aw give me a break, don’t use that comparison. You know how I feel about that.”

 

Zitao smiles despite the irritation. He and Jackson could be friends – probably after this. “Sorry, okay. How about you reroute the attention to me, leave bread crumbs or whatever spider web thing programming Jongdae uses for his shit SEO optimization services years ago. Use whatever. I’ll pay you. I just want this locked down. Come on, anyone of us could be next.”

 

Another pause. The sound of a chair swiveling in its axis. “Alright. Then what?”

 

“Then I’ll do all the dirty work.”

 

 

Sehun hates Hongdae in its entirety. It’s too busy, too on its own, like one unit fighting for individuality to the point where it looks scattered. Sehun gets rid of the Chanyeol voice in his head at the moment because Chanyeol isn’t here to punch his way through a fucking militia. He’s going in blind this time – he’s not even carrying any firepower. Good planning, 10 points off from Ravenclaw. There really isn’t a plan aside from putting a face on the threats. Maybe he can glare at them threateningly and call them shit stirrers and force them into early retirement. Then there’s always the money route.

 

His hands are clammy when he gets in the bookstore. Time slows. Sehun feels his heart thud in his chest. He chances a glimpse of his tracker. It tells him the exact location of the signal. He throws his shoulder back and pretends to look at recipe books. He lifts one, studies the back cover, and inches his way to the graphic novel section.

 

He sees a brief glimpse of leather – a whiff of cologne, a flash of jewelry. There’s a wrist clamping around his wrist and his head spins. His brain tells him to get into flight. But Chanyeol’s voice is there, reminding him about his elbow.

 

Sehun pulls his arm away, uses his upper body to slot his wrist from the weak point where the person’s thumb meets with his index finger. His body recoils, a taut string before he gives his elbow a hard throw, curving the angle to hit his captor in the throat.

 

He hits a nose instead. There’s a familiar crunch of cartilage and a small whine. “Sehun, what the fuck.”

 

It’s Zitao.

 

 

When Jackson squeaks a loud “the cute one in the letterman jacket! That’s the one!”, Zitao can barely believe it. At least Jackson has good taste.

 

Sehun _is_ cute. But also lethal. And apparently a hacker with a pseudonym of Milk and Honey, possibly responsible of the almost murder of his friend. Now he has a bloody, broken nose and a horrified almost-boyfriend who is probably contemplating between breaking his neck and officially breaking up with him.

 

“Mother—jesus fuck, Sehun. My nose.”

 

Sehun fumes but now he’s found a tissue and he extends it towards Zitao’s face. They’re now thrown out of the bookshop, no thanks to the stack of Sandman collapsing on them. “Why the hell would you grab someone like that! You should get arrested and deported.”

 

“I’m—you know why I grabbed you. I led you here.”

 

“You’re the one snooping?” Sehun glares at him more and damn, he’s really cute. “That’s a new low.”

 

“You tried to kill my friend.”

 

Sehun purses his lips, arms crossed against his chest. There’s a brief second where Zitao convinces himself that it isn’t Sehun, not because he doesn’t want him to be it, but because there’s a flash of dignified anger in the curve of his frown. It’s just one frown – but they mean different things – a frown he gives him during revisions that says ‘Are you for real?’, the frown that means ‘Stop making me laugh too much’, another frown that means ‘Come sit and cuddle with me until this stupid movie is over’.

 

“It’s not me. But I want to catch them—I don’t know, stop this. They could be after our… Jongdae hyung too. Chanyeol hyung.”

 

Zitao nods. “Me too. But I need to ice my face.”

 

“Sorry about—“ Sehun starts smiling and he cups Zitao’s face in his hand, pressing wet wipes on his philtrum. “You need a nose job.”

 

“You’re a jerk. Nurse me back to health.” This is in vain but Zitao knows that Sehun thinks he’s kind of cute too.

 

Sehun stares him down. He hails a cab and ushers Zitao in. “This Go Jun-pyo approach isn’t going to work.”

 

“Does that make you Jan-Di?” Zitao chuckles and he cradles his cheek on the curve of Sehun’s shoulder. Sehun doesn’t push him away, and Zitao sighs.

 

Sehun frowns—‘I can’t believe you’re Xiao Mao’. “I should have elbowed you in the neck.”

 

 

Sehun leads him to his apartment – his Milk and Honey apartment – the other-other part of him. Zitao complains about the temperature of the place and Sehun reasons it’s for the servers. They get to clean Zitao’s bleeding nose and Zitao sets it back in place, watching Sehun flinch in his seat, and an arm going around his shoulder to steer Zitao back so that he’s facing him.

 

He’s frowning again. It means ‘Are you okay? I’m sorry.’ Zitao nods and Sehun smooths a thumb along the tender skin of the bridge of Zitao’s nose, feeling the twitch of his facial muscles and the shiver his body makes. But it’s Sehun so he pushes his face away instead of leaning in to kiss him.

 

“You actually hate me.” Zitao whines, pulling him close.

 

“You’re correct.” Sehun is smiling and pours them a glass of soda, opens three bags of honey butter chips, and boots his system.

 

“So why Milk and Honey? Who’s milk?”

 

“It’s just me. I.. it’s the name of the system. I developed this when I was 15. I watched too much pop idol group with Chanyeol, and here we are.”

 

“Jongdae says you’re a genius.”

 

“I just take things in quicker than the average person.” Sehun crosses his legs, eyes strained on Zitao’s face like his nose will start bleeding again. “Jongdae hyung told me you’re a restaurateur. I do know how much you make a year. You should work more diligently on your taxes. And seriously? Luxury cars?”

 

“Shut your cute ass, Wonder Boy.” Zitao wants know more what he’s like – does he think like Jongdae? He’s sure that the sugar addiction is a shared trait just from the way his hand never leaves the root beer can. There’s no time for that now – the hits hold no patterns, no likeness that they can use as starting point except that they all used to be criminals. “What do you have?”

 

“Aside from a grainy CCTV footage, I have nothing. I’ve scoured everywhere but I come up empty.”

 

Zitao sits beside him, reaches for the back of his neck and squeezes. “Breathe, I’m here now. We can think about this together.”

 

Sehun leans into the touch, the tension in his shoulders melting into a slump. His brain already knows that it trusts Zitao but this new arrangement, this new ‘we’ and ‘together’, throws Sehun a couple of steps back. “How do I know you’re not one of them? You haven’t been targeted yet considering your status.”

 

“I’m Jongdae’s best man.” Sehun laughs and Zitao steals a kiss on his cheek. “Come on, pull up the case files starting from the first hit. Let’s make a timeline.”

 

On their fourth hour, Zitao stands up to stretch, shirt riding up to reveal his chiseled stomach. Sehun, sleepy, reaches to trace the hard ridges of his abdomen. Zitao lets him, his own fingers scratching the other’s scalp. “Do you remember during the tux fitting, Chanyeol hyung started to get absurdly competitive since he wants his name mentioned first because he—“ Air quotes. “—knows Jongdae the longest?”

 

“Yeah, and some idiot tried to argue because he knew Jongdae during his formative years—that’s you, don’t give me that look.” Sehun snorts sleepily and drags Zitao’s body close, pressing the side of his face on his long torso, not bothering to stand up or pull Zitao down for a proper hug. There’s a prominent pause—Zitao thinks Sehun nuzzled his fucking stomach—and something clicks. Sehun raises his eyes, trace of tiredness fading away from his eyes. “What did you say?”

 

Zitao blinks. “That you should put cute emoji beside my name on your phone?”

 

“Not that, you rotten banana.” Sehun pushes him away and drags his chair towards their drawn timeline. “Competitive—competition. Tao, do you see it?”

 

Sehun shuffles the names side by side, starting from Joonmyun, ending with Fei. “It’s elimination. They’re—“

 

“Trying to be first by defeating all the former firsts.”

Suho peaked the Interpol list in 2010 until he disappeared. Ace promptly followed him after the former’s inactivity. Wang Feifei, a billion dollar con artist and former beauty queen, called The White Crane spots next until she eventually falls off the grid.

 

Sehun looks at Zitao – it’s a frown but a new one. Zitao shakes his head and continues to scratch his scalp. “Means I’m next.” Zitao gives him a comforting grin, cocksure and confident more than comforting. He kisses his cheek again and Sehun can smell the sweetness of his berry soda. “You got my back, right?”

 

Sehun’s hands feel cold, until Zitao covers it with his own. He clears his throat. “Yeah I mean, you’re paying me for services rendered, right?”

 

 

Zitao establishes a pattern. It’s a variable that they can control until everything unveils. The ‘enemy’, as Zitao dubs would have taken time to follow him closely, stalk his routine, and know his blind spots. Sehun is his own surveillance, shadowing his movements while hiding his own. Sehun’s presence is just enough so that they can’t blitz attack Zitao but not enough that they reformulate their strategy, leaving Sehun with more guesses than strategic hypotheses.

 

It goes for three weeks. Zitao goes to his appointments, meets investors and clients, holds parties for a new product launch – a BBQ marinade that’s a popular house recipe – he takes Sehun as his date. They go on lots of dates during that period actually. Sehun is his invisible bodyguard after all and Chanyeol who remained clueless of the bigger picture teased him relentlessly until Sehun threatened to delete his grades from the school server.

 

The longer the days drag out, the more Zitao becomes a permanent fixture in Sehun’s life. Saturday is saved for Sehun’s favorite yogurt shop, Tuesdays for pizza in Zitao’s place. One Wednesday is for when Zitao cooked for Sehun, taught him the secret ways of charbroiling a perfect patty – Sehun refused the tomato “for fun” and they had a shouting match over the benefits of the fruit before Zitao decided that they settle the argument with making out against the door of the fridge, his magnets from all around the world digging against Sehun’s spine.

 

This kind of almost permanence scares Sehun. They vulnerability of the whole set-up, not to mention the way he starts to tell Zitao about his day, or what kind of food he likes when he’s horny, or when he liberally talks shit about the orphanage bullies. They layer homogenously like cake batter, and Sehun can’t stop himself from dipping his finger, tasting the sweetness of it in its raw form.

 

Zitao takes the second spot in his Scared of List. Because Zitao looks back when he leaves the room, Zitao looks first when he enters one. Sehun knows because his eyes seek him first too – the length of the room, the noise of the crowd, the 3 o’ clock coffee break in Zitao’s office and Sehun pretends he’s still designing the website but he’s just too uncomfortable with the thought of leaving him when he can be easily snatched away from him.

 

There’s a quiet earthquake to him, even as he holds him when they lie on the bed or when they’re out in Seoul and Zitao pretends to be a tourist and haggle for discounts, or when Zitao shows off his pick-pocketing skills and Sehun frowning, frowning for all its worth because he’s scared that he’ll want more and he’ll break his kneecaps from trying to cushion the blow of Zitao’s gravity – his life, the energy his smiles.

 

Zitao is smart. But not as smart as Sehun. Zitao is scared too, but not as scared as Sehun. In that moment, Sehun feels more, heart weighing more, that when Zitao falls asleep after a long day’s work, he overrides a hacking program to access the Interpol list. In ten seconds, he switches Xiao Mao profile with Milk and Honey.

 

 

 

_Sehun’s apartment, Seoul_

 

Sehun covers his mouth as his throat runs dry after faking several rounds of cough. Zitao is on his phone, asking worriedly if he needs him there. Sehun tells him to enjoy the opening ceremony of his restaurant’s new branch. Jongdae is there, even Chanyeol is invited.

 

It’s 7 o’ clock in the evening when Zitao is finally convinced that Sehun has a cough but isn’t dying. Sehun doesn’t have a cough, but he could be dying any minute now.

 

His alarm trips two days ago. There’s someone snooping around his case files; someone had accessed his orphanage records, tracked his high school’s transcripts – same thing that happened to Ace a few days before he gets arrested, same thing that happened to Zitao prior to Sehun tinkering with the police data.

 

Sehun is a step ahead. But that barely counts as anything.

 

When the fans of his servers stop functioning, and the whirring pauses to welcome the silence that comes after, Sehun steadies himself and grips the handle of Chanyeol’s old baseball bat. Lights go out. Sehun swings. There’s a buzz, a sound of discharge, then there’s electric current running through his body. Fuck, taser, Sehun curses and he blacks out.

 

 

Sehun comes around to voices arguing softly. His ears ring, and his whole body feels like the freeway. He must have hit his head too, because that’s the nastiest Neon Jungle remix he had ever heard in his life – and he had been with Chanyeol when he was experimenting with subwoofers and Radiohead.

 

“I told you that’s not much of a work out song.” Voice Number One pipes up beside him. Oh, so he said that out loud. Sehun blinks slowly as feels a slight bounce on his seat – he’s in a car.

 

“I still don’t see the significance of having a ‘get-away’ playlist when this is technically kidnapping.” Another voice. Sehun thinks they’re both female but he can’t see much from the blindfold.

 

“But we’re in a car, so, we’re getting away, with a person we have extracted from his original location.”

 

“Involuntarily.”

 

“Illegally.”

 

“Okay, but wait,” a third voice says. Sehun cocks his head to focus on the slowing his pulse. “If we delivers him there, and they kill him. Would it be kidnapping or accessory to murder?”

 

Sehun swallows and he croaks. “Who said anything about murder? What murder?”

 

Voice Number One chuckles softly. It’s delicate, like when you tell your girlfriend that she has the nicest smile. “The thing is, if we expose you, you’ll be like some hero. But if we deliver you right in front of Congressman Hwang’s home and tell him that you’re the cause of his horrific downfall from corrupting the system, he’ll get rid of you for us.”

 

They have a point and Sehun feels helpless by the second, like a declawed cat when he can’t put them to use. At least this isn’t the kind of method he’s expecting they’ll use.

 

“Such a shame, you’re kind of cute, oppa.”

 

Sehun exhales through his nose. “I’m gay.”

 

There’s a collective ‘oh’ in the car and Sehun thinks of Zitao and how upset he’ll be. He left him a message when he gets home anyway, explaining everything. Sehun’s pretty much satisfied by it even if he had to reshoot some parts a couple of times because his voice breaks and he feels like crying. It ends with “if you’re wondering, yes we are—or were, it depends, actually dating. Bye.”

 

“I told you—“

 

“Yeah, but I thought they’re just friends—“

 

“Friends don’t have ‘sleep overs’ on the same bed, semi-naked and stops in the middle of the road to fix each other’s shoelaces.”

 

“Wait, wait.” Sehun interrupts, licking his lips. A bitten off straw nudges his lower lip and he sucks – lemonade, and he’s glad for the burst of sweet and sour on his tongue. “What are you talking about?”

 

“The CEO guy, you’re dating, right?”

 

Sehun almost fumes. “Can we just talk about my imminent death?”

 

Someone stage-whispers in front. “Issues.”

 

The car halts to a stop. Sehun lurches forward. Someone curses. He hears a revving engine and Sehun manages to unhinge the handcuffs – a magic trick Zitao had taught him; ‘it’s all about the mechanism, Sehun-ah, have you ever played surgery with a clock?’ – it’s not enough distraction because he’s still as slow as fuck and a hand grabs the back of his shirt, yanking him back. He falls against a soft body, but a hard arm around his shoulders, and the cold barrel of a gun. Fuck. At least his blindfold slides down around his neck.

 

“Seriously? Leather suits? Like seriously? Did you all decide to watch Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapment?”

 

The voice belongs to Zitao. Of course Zitao will appear with his quarter-life crisis purchased motorbike, in a suit, with his stupid hair looking nicely wind-blown. Sehun watches a lot of movies on his free time, but the situation unfolds and it’s absurdly laughable.

 

“Hey, I liked that movie.”

 

Sehun turns to look at Voice Number One – he knows her, she’s younger, but Sehun knows her because she’s a lot like him, too old to be adopted. “Sooyoung?”

 

She flashes him a cheerleader smile. “I go by Joy now, oppa.”

 

“You know her?” Zitao asks, glaring, he has his Glock out now too.

 

“I…yeah, she’s – “

 

Voice Number Two shoots first – but she has a face now, small like a nymph just like the rest of her body. Zitao’s hand is on the seat of his bike, and he propels himself up and flips, using its big body as a cover. Sehun’s ears are ringing. Voice Number Three – the one with the cat eyes is still holding him, grip strong, and he can taste the metal from the blood on his mouth, teeth cutting through the soft flesh of his inner cheek.

 

Sehun hears Zitao call for him, a ragged panicky voice. Bullets fly – Sehun has never seen bullets tearing through metal aside from movies. He thinks of the times he has turned Chanyeol down for a few rounds in the shooting range, and he regrets it. He can see Zitao’s body molding the air around him, muscles taut under expensive fabric as he blocks round house kick with his arm, and he counters with a grab of Voice Number One’s hair – someone screams ‘Juhyun-unni!’ and Sehun believes that’s her name.

 

Zitao is made for this. Sehun isn’t. Sehun wont probably punch a girl, but Zitao stops short of doing that and knocks her out with the same taser she used on Sehun. Sehun’s eyes are frantic now and he feels the grip on him loosens as the remaining captors lose direction at the fall of their comrade. 

 

“Sehun, get in the car!” Zitao instructs, gun waving towards the now abandoned vehicle. Sehun can see Sooyoung shake Juhyun before she stands up, pistol aimed at Sehun’s direction. When she fires, he barely ducks. Zitao is on his side a second later, shoving him in the passenger’s seat. “What the fuck, Sehun, get it together.”

 

When Zitao gets the car running, Sooyoung has managed to shoot the glass behind them. Sehun ducks and covers his head, eyes strained towards the blinking security camera on the metal railings of the bridge. “Give me your phone!”

 

Zitao gives him a confused look and shoots back, trying to find a good angle to at least incapacitate her. He can’t see the two other girls – that’s not a good sign and he and Sehun are pretty much outnumbered without firepower. He should have listened to Jackson but he trusted Sehun enough not to go out on his way and work alone. Zitao gives him his phone anyway, and he sees him overriding the program with a virus – Zitao shakes his head. “When we get out of here, you have some explaining to do.”

 

“I’m just trying to help. And shut up, let me concentrate.”

 

The side mirror smashes into tiny pieces and Sehun works a little faster. When he finishes, he strains the camera back onto Sooyong. “Sehun, what are you doing?”

 

“I’m broadcasting it. Seoul has the quickest emergency response time. Plus, they’re going to be—“ The sound of a rolling metal distracts him from explaining. Sehun has never seen a grenade on his life, but playing FPS games told him that it’s a blast stun explosive.

 

The last image he sees is Zitao’s face, and everything goes dark.

 

 

 

_Two months later, Quezon, City, Philippines_

 

Sehun sits at a corner booth, eyes drawn towards the gargantuan flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The second installment of Planet of the Apes is playing while the other screen on the other side of the room is broadcasting Jose Aldo versus Conor McGregor. Sehun can’t see who’s winning but he can see new customers being ushered to the second floor.

 

They’re running a full place tonight, it seems. He sends Jongdae a Snapchat of his blue lemonade and edits it, adding bushy eyebrows and wide eyes. He labels it Chanyeol hyung’s constipated face.

 

“Work of art.”

 

Sehun looks up. “Don’t you have burgers to flip or something.”

 

“You do realize I’m not the cook, right?”

 

“Then why are you here all the time. Come on, you said we’ll go to the Ocean Park. That’s two weeks ago.”

 

Zitao wipes the sweat from his forehead. “That statement negates the tone of your first comment. Do you want me here or not?” His business venture in Manila is a success. Sehun’s visiting for summer – but summer’s long gone now, and he keeps extending his tourist visa. Zitao hides a smile and reaches over to pinch his cheek. “Now you want to date me.”

 

“I do not. I’m just bored.”

 

“Seeing big ass fish solves that?” Zitao has his ankle hooked around Sehun’s now. Sehun doesn’t pull away.

 

“I’ll let you hold my hand.”

 

Two months after the encounter, Sehun is still uncomfortable about the thought of losing sight of Zitao’s broad back and the slim taper of his waist. Even his perfume rubs on Sehun’s clothes. It’s maddening. They didn’t come out unscathed. Sehun can’t hear from his left ear for a week. Zitao’s migrane powers through when it’s too bright.

 

They didn’t catch whoever were targeting Zitao. But with the damage they did on Seoul public property, Sehun is sure that they’re garnering some kind of acknowledgement now. Chanyeol manages to see the broadcast. Technically, he both saved their asses that day. But he isn’t smiling when he presses cold water on Sehun’s forehead to wake him up. ‘That’s not cool, Sehun, partners help each other out.’ But Chanyeol is looking at Zitao’s figure on the other side of the room. Sehun feels like a human shitstain.

 

Sehun tells Zitao he’ll retire. It’s hard to admit, but he tells him that when Zitao plays dead on Chanyeol’s bed. ‘That was very Jun-Pyo of you.’ Sehun is mad and upset and he punches an injured man on the shoulder while Chanyeol laughs from the kitchen. ‘Where is your loyalty!’ Sehun hollers, and pushes Zitao so he can make room for Sehun.

 

Sehun learns the next day that the group calls themselves Red Velvet. Zitao can’t stop laughing but voices his worry that they’ll come after them again. That’s the only reason why he’s convinced Sehun to make the move here until everything has mellowed down.

 

“What if we take a long drive. We can go to Tagaytay. See the lake. Suck on beef bone marrow.”

 

There’s a joke on the tip of Sehun’s tongue but he only reaches for Zitao’s hand on top of the table, slotting their fingers together. “I’m saying, we can steal a stingray as proof of our love.”

 

A pause. “Oh so you love me?”

 

“No. Well. You do.”

 

“You said our.”

 

“You need to get your head—“

 

“—I know what I—“

 

There are no final bows in the end. No grand reveal. No applause. Sehun is not a Mona Lisa, per se. Definitely not something he can roll up and store in a special storage because Sehun is most beautiful like this, vibrant and moving, fingers pressing against his wrist in that left over petulant pout that only works on Chanyeol.

 

But Zitao is looking at Sehun right now and he doesn’t feel the urge to rob the Louvre anymore.

 

_The End._


End file.
